The Fire that Burns Deepest
by Dances With Pandas
Summary: From the ashes of Helgen.
1. Chapter 1

The town was in flames.

'Do me proud, Son.' His Father had whispered, before he and his Mother had succumbed to their wounds. He had wanted to cry but he couldn't. He was a big boy now.

The wide open streets leading to the main gate and keep belched smoke and embers, flames devouring the sparsely clustered thatched houses and licking at the keep walls. From the west, the screams and clamor of vicious battle and the dragon's shouts grew even louder.

Their attacker had swooped down on them unexpectedly, shattering their fortifications which had been held so vigilantly by the Imperial Legion, a handful of townsmen carrying pitchforks and bows had joined the foray, trying to protect what was theirs. Horses, once so majestic decked out in their finery, flew over the barricades rider less and aflame.

Glistening fire was sowing unprejudiced death amongst the defenders.

Haming felt the knight who carried him before him on his saddle abruptly spur his horse. He heard his cry. 'Hold on,' he shouted. 'Hold on!'

Other knights wearing the colours of the Imperial Legion overtook them, sparring, even in full flight with the dragon. Haming caught a glimpse of a skirmish from the corner of his eye – the crazed swirl of crimson evaporating in fire and red cloaks amidst the death and carnage, the dying cries of soldiers, the neighing of horses-

Shouts. No, not shouts. Screams.

'_Hold on!_'

_Fear_. With every jolt, every jerk, every leap of the horse pain shot through his little hands as he clutched at the reins. His legs contracted painfully, unable to find support, his eyes watered from the smoke. The arm around him suffocated him, choking him, the force compressing his ribs. All around him screaming such as he had never heard before grew louder. What must one do to a man to make him scream so?

_Fear_. Overpowering, paralysing, choking fear.

Again the sound of bows loosing arrows, again the sound of spells and again the grunts and snorts of horses. The houses of Helden whirled about him and suddenly he could see his home belching fire. A few minutes before, his Mother and Father had been trying to protect him from looking at the Stormcloak executions. Now there was nothing but a muddy little street strewn with abandoned possessions of the fleeing population. Now there was nothing but burning corpses, corpses that included his Mother and Father.

All of a sudden the knight at his back was wracked by a strange wheezing cough. Blood spurted over the hands grasping the reins. More screams. Arrows and fireballs whistled past.

A fall, a shock, bruising against armour. Horses pounded past him, a horses belly and a frayed girth flashing by above his head. Grunts of exertion, like a lumberjack when chopping wood. But this isn't wood; it's iron against dragon fire. A shout, muffled and dull, and something huge and black collapsed into the mud next to him with a splash, splurting blood. An armoured foot quivered, thrashed, goring the earth with an enormous spur.

A jerk. Some force plucked him up, pulled him on to another saddle. _Hold on!_ Again the bone-shaking speed, the mad gallop. Arms and legs desperately searching for support. The horse rears. Hold on!...There is no support. There is no…There is no…There is blood. The horse falls. It's impossible to jump aside, no way to break free, to escape the embrace of these chain-mail clad arms. There is no way to avoid the blood pouring onto his head and over his shoulders.

The street is on fire, a roaring red wall of flame. Silhouetted before it, a dragon towers over the flaming roofs, enormous. His black profile prances, tosses his head and he roars.

The dragon stares down at him. Haming sees his eyes glistening framed by his huge wings. He sees the fire reflected in the numerous swords of the dead littered across the street.

The dragon looks at him. Haming is unable to move. The dead man's motionless arms wrapped around his waist hold him down. He is held in place by something heavy and wet with blood, something which is laying across his thigh, pinning him to the ground.

And he is frozen in fear: a terrible fear which turns his entrails inside out, which deafens Haming to the screams of the wounded horse, to the roar of the blaze, to the cries of dying soldiers and the pounding of the dragon's wings. The only thing which still counts, which still has any meaning, is fear. Fear embodied in the figure of a black dragon frozen against the wall of raging, red flames.

The dragon is spurred to flight, the wings beat as the massive beast takes off, launching itself to attack it's helpless victim, paralysed with fear. The dragon roars terrifyingly, cruelly, triumphantly. A black dragon and behind this – the flames. A sea of flames.

_Fear._

The wings beat, the wind assaults his face. Fear!

_Help_! _W__hy doesn't anyone help me? Alone, weak, helpless – I can't move, can't force a sound from my constricted throat. Why does no one come to help me?_

_I'm terrified!_

Eyes blaze through the dark dramatic wings. Even with fires raging everywhere the dragon is veiled in darkness. It's scales are so -

'Haming!'

He woke, numb and drenched in sweat, with his screams – the scream which had woken him – still hanging in the air, still vibrating deep within him, beneath his breast bone and burning against his parched throat. His hands ached, clenched around the blanket, his back ached...

'Haming. Calm down.'

Sky Haven Temple was dark and damp. The barracks fireplace flickered its light while distorting shadows against the chamber's wall. There was no malevolent fire, no screams only the Dragon Born in all his glory.

Beside the fireplace, flickering with warmth and lights was Haming's Akaviri long sword and his Blade armour. It's reflected flames gleaming red in the leather wrapped and steel banded hilt. There was no other fire and no other steel. The hand against his forehead smelled of leather and ash. Not of blood.

'Dragonborn…'

'It was a dream. A bad dream.'

Haming shuddered.

A dream. Just a dream.

The fire was already dying down; the birch logs were red and luminous, occasionally crackling giving off tiny spurts of blue flame which illuminated the Dragon priest mask of the man strapping on his dragon bone armour.

'Dragonborn, I…'

'I'm right here. Get ready, Haming. Today we continue to avenge your parents and we have a long way to travel'.

I can hear my Father's last words to me, he thought suddenly, at the beginning of the chaos of that day sixteen years ago.

'Do me proud, son'.

Amidst the other Blades, adorning their armour, he marched out with the Dragonborn one more time.

He continued to make his Father proud.


	2. Chapter 2

The Dragonborn flinched a little and swallowed hard. The initial shock of drinking Esbern's potion had passed and the second stage was beginning to take effect, as indicated by a faint but unpleasant dizziness which accompanied the adaption of his sight to darkness.

The adaption progressed quickly. The deep darkness of the night paled; everything around him started to take on shades of grey, shades which were at first hazy and unclear and then increasingly contrasting, distinct and sharp. In the little clearing leading to the dragon mount which, just a moment ago, had been as dark as the inside of the Night Mother's coffin, the Dragonborn could now make out the various game roaming the mountainside, and sniffing at puddles.

His hearing, too, had been heightened by the Blades' decoction. The deserted tangle of bush and scree where, only a moment ago, there had been the sound of rain, began to come to life, to throb with sounds. He heard the cries of foxes fighting, wolves howling on the other side of the river, muffled whispers and hand signals from the Blades behind him. The dark, sleepy recesses of the dragon mount came to life as well – the Dragonborn could make out the snoring of bears, eagles feeding their young, goats searching the rough terrain for food. From one of the crevices in the depths of the mountain came the stifled, spasmodic howls of two mountain cats in the throes of mating.

Dawn was approaching. It had finally stopped raining, a wind started up which blew the clouds away. The sky in the east was clearly paling.

The animals on the mountain suddenly grew uneasy, scattered in all directions and hid amongst the rocks and growth.

The Dragonborn heard wings flapping. Very large wings. One dragon; he could not as yet say how big or what type. He scanned the mountainside but did not see his formidable opponent.

Immediately he changed tactic. If the dragon was unknown to him he would not risk the Blades. He would first fight his opponent and then call them for support. As he was under the influence of the elixir, he would take the lead, his Blades would then follow.

The ground shook as the dragon landed on top of its word wall. It raised its mighty head and roared.

The Dragonborn emerged from the shadows.

The dragon loomed from its perch on the mountain.

The Dragonborn recognised his enemy instantly and instinctively, although he had never seen this one before. Frost dragon. Very old. Ancient.

He marched forward alone. His escort did not reveal themselves, remaining hidden in the sparse under-growth. He suspected the dragon knew who was coming for him. He suspected the dragon knew his lone attacker had support and yet it still stood there. Perched, eyeing his every movement with those ancient amber eyes. The dragon remained perched on his word wall. And that was even after he must of heard the quiet grating of Akaviri swords being drawn from their scabbards. _Fine, _he thought_. If that's what you want, fine._

'It is a pleasure hunting you, Dovahkiin,' said the dragon calmly. 'You appear where you're wanted of your own accord.'

'The same could be said of you,' retorted the Dragonborn. 'You appeared here. I wanted you here.'

'You must of pushed hard to find this word wall but what you don't know is that the word wall informs and reports at the same time. There have been a good many distributed across this land. I knew that sooner or later you would come across this one'.

His four men emerged from the under-growth. They moved slowly, deftly and noiselessly. They still kept to the areas of darkness and wielded their drawn swords in such a way as not to be betrayed by a flash of blades. The Dragonborn saw them clearly but did not betray that fact. He focused on the dragon and it focused on him. His men needed time to get into position.

'I waited', continued the ancient dragon without moving from his spot, 'and here you are. I intend to finally rid this world of Alduin's burden.'

'You intend? You overate yourself. You are nothing but a tool.'

'A tool by itself does not kill. You call me that, Dovahkiin but you are about to pay for your arrogance with your life and that of your men'.

'You shouldn't of said that.' The Dragonborn smiled, feeling the euphoria of battle aroused by the elixir, reacting with adrenaline. 'Before you spoke you had a chance to fly away and live. Now you don't'.

A powerful oscillation of the Dragonborn's senses warned him of a sudden assault. He jumped aside and, drawing his sword in a flash, deflected and annihilated the violent paralysing wave of magical energy directed at him. The dragon backed away, raised its tail to make a move but at the last moment hesitated and took fright. Not attempting a second Thu'um it tried to retreat to the skies.

The Dragonborn bellowed with his own Thu'um, 'JOOR, ZAH, FRUL'. Just as the dragon had left its perch.

The new shout was as yet untested but the Dragonborn understood its potential. Dragonrend forced the targeted dragon to understand the meaning of mortality. Something so incomprehensible it tore at the dragon's soul. Breaking it's concentration to the point it couldn't sustain flight.

The four Blades who thought they were concealed in the shadows threw themselves at the dragon. Swords flashed.

They were professionals. All four of them. Experienced, skilled professionals working as a team. They came at the dragon in pairs, two on the left, two on the right. In pairs – so that one always covered the other's back. The Dragonborn attacked solo straight down the middle. On top of the euphoria created by the potion came fury.

The first blade attacked with a feint only to jump aside and allow the man behind him to execute a deceptive thrust. The dragon tried to spin to evade the thrust but left his other flanks open to the Dragonborn and his other companions. Seizing the moment the Dragonborn struck the occiput, while the other pair struck at the dragon's shoulders. He was angry and hit hard. A fountain of blood spurted on the dragon wall.

The Dragonborn backed away with lightning speed, making room for the next pair. These separated for the attack, slashing their swords from two directions in such a way that only one blow could be defended, the other having to meet its aim. The dragon did not counter either and roared in pain as both swords found their mark.

Whirling in a pirouette the Dragon tried to use its mass as a weapon. Even discombobulated with dragonrend the blades knew it was a formidable opponent. In order not to collide with the beast, both pairs had to break their teamed rhythm, their rehearsed steps. The dragon reared itself on its back legs. Hamming manged to turn in a soft feint and leapt away dextrously just as the dragon's next Thu'um came. His partner did not have time. He lost his balance and stumbled backwards just as the dragon's Thu'um ripped the armour and skin from his bones.

They were not expecting the loss. The blades hesitated but the Dragonborn countered. _No more. I'm not losing another._

Turning back to the dragon he charged, used his momentum to slash him across the lower stomach. His daedric sword penetrated the dragon's scales and sliced the beast open. He was angry and focused that anger into his Thu'um. A terrifying shout echoed through the mountain. The dragon fell on its back and crushed its spine with its own weight. It started to shout, yelling incomprehensibly. But the Dragonborn understood. He knew this ancient dragon was calling for help. Begging for help.

The dragon had never felt fear before. The Dovahkiin's shout had filled it with a sense of terror that was as equally alien to itself as the thought of it being defeated by a group mortal men and mer. The dragon felt the blood draining from it. Flowing rapidly through its complex arteries and thick reinforced scales. It felt as though it's very essence and strength was escaping and pouring into something else. It twitched for a moment but now it lay motionless. The dragon felt something kneel on its throat. It detected the smell of ash and leather. He heard the words of his nemesis but it was hard to make out with the confusion of dragonrend. As the light started to fade and the background noise diminished the voice became clearer and more understandable.

The dragon no longer felt anything. It closed its eyes and focused on the voice.

'Don't be frightened', said the voice as the point of something cold and sharp touched its eyelid. 'This won't hurt'.

Indeed, it did not hurt.


End file.
